Like Smoke
by GoodbyeJanuary
Summary: Their time was running out, crumbling like ashes from a cigarette. [Alan/Eric. Contains major spoilers.]


This was bullshit. Eric sits up, bringing a cigarette to his lips. There is the soft 'flick' of a match, its flame briefly illuminating his features before he tosses it to the floor. He inhales. The sharp taste of cloves stings his tongue, reminding him that he had kicked the habit months ago. He exhales. Well fuck it. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

Water drips from the ceiling, a frigid wind entering the room through a crack in the door. He looks over at the man sleeping next to him, running a finger through the mousy hair. Alan needs to be in a hospital, not freezing to death in the cellar of some godforsaken building. He needs warmth, dry clothing, and _real _food. Eric tucks his coat around the younger man's shoulders more tightly, murmuring a soft apology.

If Alan were awake right now, he would scold him. He would tell Eric that he should be resting; not smoking. He would assure him that he was all right for the time being, the look on his face telling a completely different story. Eric leans his head against the wall, a small noise escaping his lips. He knows that he couldn't sleep right now, even if he wanted to.

They're not in the clear yet. Not even close. At any moment, that demon will be back on their heels. That means more running. More attacks. He rubs his eyes with his hands, shaking his head. Alan's body won't withstand much more of this. It _can't._ Ashes fall to the floor, and he grinds them into the stone with the heel of his foot.

It's a fucking game. That demon could catch them any time he wanted to, but he won't. He _likes _the anticipation. He likes toying with them…letting them think they can escape, then appearing when they least expect it. Eric clenches his fist, driving it into the jagged stone of the wall next to him. Blood drips down his arm, but he doesn't feel the pain. He doesn't feel anything anymore.

Killing was easy for him at first. Find a girl, and be sure she's alone. That was it. He could care less who she was, or where she came from. As long as her soul was clean, that was all that mattered. He runs his fingers across the wound on his hand, wiping it off on the tattered sheets of their makeshift bed. The victims need to be chosen more carefully now, though. They need to be girls without families, or friends. Girls without pasts, or futures. Girls who won't be missed. He laughs bitterly to himself, knowing that such people don't exist anymore. When you live in the streets, your name becomes covered in blood. Those kind of souls won't help him.

But he's so close now. So very close. Just a few more nights of this, and Alan will be alright. He'll be angry at first, but as the years go by, he'll get over it. He'll _thank _Eric for saving his life. Even if they can never go back to Dispatch…even if they have to keep running forever, everything will be all right. They'll find a place to stay, somewhere far from the smoke, and fog of London. _Somewhere with lots of flowers. The kid'll like that. _Eric thinks to himself, and for a moment, he believes the words.

He doesn't believe in love. Years of working on the docks, numerous nights spent in the brothels there, and the countless women he had been with had all destroyed any trace of the notion. Anything he had ever been close to had been taken from him long ago, until he—like many Reapers—became entirely numb to such feelings. It's part of the job. He takes a drag from the cigarette, the warmth spreading through his fingertips as it nears its end. Maybe love was real, maybe it wasn't. That kinda shit never mattered to him anyway. Whatever was feeling right now, as he watched the other man breathing peacefully, _that _was close enough to love for him.

Alan stirs in his sleep, hair sticking clammily to his forehead. Eric lets out the breath he didn't realise he had been holding, covering one of Alan's hands in his own. It's only a matter of time before another attack. Before he has to watch uselessly as pain engulfs his partner while he can do nothing to help it. He knows that their time is running out.

Between his fingers, the cigarette slowly wastes away, its smoke twisting lazily into the air until it disappears. It falls from his grip, onto the damp ground. He rolls over, pressing his lips to Alan's cheek. What he doesn't know is that come sundown tomorrow, they will both be gone.


End file.
